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McClellan (search for this): chapter 34
, the Rebel, to find him. He found him at last, then ran very fast, With his gallant invaders behind him! Jackson's commissary was a favorite butt for the shafts of rebel humor. Another Mother Goose thus pictures him: John Pope came down to our town And thought him wondrous wise; He jumped into a ‘skeeter swamp And started writing lies. But when he found his lies were out- With all his might and main He changed his base to another place, And began to lie again! This verse on McClellan does not go to prove that the South respected any less the humane warfare, or the tactical ability of him his greatest opponents declared the North's best general. Little McClellan sat eating a melon, The Chickahominy by, He stuck in his spade, then a long while delayed, And cried What a brave general am I! Or this, embalming the military cant of the day: Henceforth, when a fellow is kicked out of doors, He need never resent the disgrace; But exclaim, ‘ My dear sir, I'm etern
Fielding (search for this): chapter 34
you cut and deal the pack And copper every Jack, You'll lose stack after stack -- Forever! Everything tending to bathos-whether for the cause, or against it --caught its quick rebuke, at the hands of some glib funmaker. Once an enthusiastic admirer of the hero of Charleston indited a glowing ode, of which the refrain ran: Beau sabreur, beau canon, Beau soldat-Beauregard! Promptly came another, and most distorted version; its peculiar refrain enfolding: Beau Brummel, Beau Fielding, Beau Hickman-Beauregard! As it is not of record that the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia ever discovered the junior laureate, the writer will not essay to do so. Colonel Tom August, of the First Virginia, was the Charles Lamb of Confederate war-wits; genial, quick and ever gay. Early in secession days, a bombastic friend approached Colonel Tom, with the query: Well, sir, I presume your voice is still for war? To which the wit replied promptly: Oh, yes, devilish still
Hickman (search for this): chapter 34
eal the pack And copper every Jack, You'll lose stack after stack -- Forever! Everything tending to bathos-whether for the cause, or against it --caught its quick rebuke, at the hands of some glib funmaker. Once an enthusiastic admirer of the hero of Charleston indited a glowing ode, of which the refrain ran: Beau sabreur, beau canon, Beau soldat-Beauregard! Promptly came another, and most distorted version; its peculiar refrain enfolding: Beau Brummel, Beau Fielding, Beau Hickman-Beauregard! As it is not of record that the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia ever discovered the junior laureate, the writer will not essay to do so. Colonel Tom August, of the First Virginia, was the Charles Lamb of Confederate war-wits; genial, quick and ever gay. Early in secession days, a bombastic friend approached Colonel Tom, with the query: Well, sir, I presume your voice is still for war? To which the wit replied promptly: Oh, yes, devilish still! Later, wh
Clarissa Sophia (search for this): chapter 34
abet; and negro schools seemed to have been smuggled in by every army ambulance, so numerously did they spring up in the captured Capital. So, early one day, Clarissa Sophia, the maid of color, donned her very best and, with shiny morning face, hied her, like anything but a snail, to school. Very brief was her absence; her return began by impressing the great truth that every sister present was born free and equal; was quite as good as she was. Wa‘ dat yo's sain‘ now? interrupted Clarissa Sophia. Yo‘ say Ise jess ekal as Yo‘ is? Yes; I said so, was the sharp retort, and I can prove it! Ho! ‘Tain't no need, replied the lately disenthralled. Rec sho‘ nuff. But does yo‘ say dat Ise good as missus?--my missus? Certainly you are! This with asperity. Den Ise jess gwine out yere, rite off! cried Clarissa Sophia, suiting action to word-Ef Ise good as my missus, I'se goin‘ ter quit; fur I jess know she ent ‘soshiatin‘ wid no sich wite trash like you is!
S. R. Mallory (search for this): chapter 34
tals; and he was, of course, in envied possession of brilliant uniform and equipment. At a certain ball, his glittering blind-spurs became entangled in the flowing train of a dancing belle-one of the most brilliant of the set. She stopped in mid-waltz; touched my friend on the broidered chevron with taper fingers, and sweetly said: Captain, may I trouble you to dismount? Another noted girl-closely connected with the administrationmade one of a distinguished party invited by Secretary Mallory to inspect a newly-completed iron-clad, lying near the city. It was after many reverses had struck the navy, causing — as heretofore shown-destruction of similar ships. Every detail of this one explained, lunch over and her good fortune drunk, the party were descending the steps to the captain's gig, when this belle stopped short. Oh! Mr. Secretary! she smiled innocently-You forgot to show us one thing! Indeed? was the bland query--Pray what was it? To which came the start
McCarty (search for this): chapter 34
ey would run from Lookout Mount, Who fought so well at Chickamauga! Round many a smoky camp-fire were sung clever songs, whose humor died with their gallant singers, for want of recording memories in those busy days. Latham, Caskie and Page McCarty sent out some of the best of the skits; a few verses of one by the latter's floating to mind, from the snowbound camp on the Potomac, stamped by his vein of rollicking satire-with-a-tear in it: Manassas' field ran red with gore, With blood somber picture of war round Richmond, with high-lights boldly put in by master-hands! Of them were quaint George Bagby, Virginia's pet humorist; gallant, cultured Willie Meyers; original Trav Daniel; Washington, artist, poet and musician; Page McCarty, recklessly brilliant in field and frolic alike; Ham Chamberlayne, quaint, cultivated and colossal in originality; Key, Elder and other artists; genial, jovial Jim Pegram; Harry Stanton, Kentucky's soldier poetand a score of others who won fame,
Bray (search for this): chapter 34
ed. Roast: Mule sirloin; mule rump, stuffed with rice; saddleof-mule, à l'armee. Vegetables: Boiled rice; rice, hard boiled; hard rice, any way. Entrees: Mule head, stuffed à la Reb; mule beef, jerked à la Yankie; mule ears, fricasseed à la getch; mule side, stewed-new style, hair on; mule liver, hashed à l'explosion. side Dishes: Mule salad; mule hoof, soused; mule brains l'omelette; mule kidneys, braises on ramrod; mule tripe, on half (Parrot) shell; mule tongue, cold, à la Bray. Jellies: Mule foot (3-to-yard); mule bone, à la trench. Pastry: Rice pudding, pokeberry sauce; cottonwood-berry pie, à la iron-clad; chinaberry tart. dessert: White-oak acorns; beech-nuts; blackberry-leaf tea; genuine Confederate coffee. liquors: Mississippi water, vintage 1492, very superior, $3; limestone water, late importation, very fine, $3.75; spring water, Vicksburg bottled up, $4. Meals at few hours. Gentlemen to wait upon themselves. Any inattention in service
English (search for this): chapter 34
do I wish? slowly repeated the still-rebellious dame. Well, if you must know, I wish all you Yankees were in — hell! But not all the humor was confined to the governing race; some of its points cropping out sharply here and there, from under the wool of the oppressed brother --in-law. One case is recalled of the spoiled body servant of a gallant Carolinian, one of General Wheeler's brigade commanders. His master reproved his speech thus: Peter, you rascal! Why don't you speak English, instead of saying ‘wah yo‘ is'? Waffer, Mars' Sam? queried the negro with an innocent grin. Yo allus calls de Gen'ral-Weel-er? Another, close following the occupation, has a spice of higher satire. A Richmond friend had a petted maid, who-devoted and constant to her mistress, even in those tempting days-still burned with genuine negro curiosity for a sight of everything pertaining to Mars Linkum's men --especially for de skule. For swift, indeed, were the newcome saints to pr<
Yanks (search for this): chapter 34
epigrams and anecdotes unnumbered; most of them wholly forgotten, with only a few remembered from local color, or peculiar point. General Zeb Vance's apostrophe to the buck-rabbit, flying by him from heavy rifle fire: Go it,--cotton-tail! If I hadn't a reputation, I'd be with you! --was a favorite theme for variations. Similarly modified to fit, was the protest of the western recruit, ordered on picket at Munson's Hill: Go yander ter keep ‘un off! Wy, we'uns kem hyah ter fight th' Yanks; an‘ ef you'uns skeer ‘un off, how'n thunder ez thar goan ter be a scrimmidge, no how? A different story-showing quick resource, wnere resources were lacking — is told of gallant Theodore O'Hara, who left the noblest poem of almost any war, The bivouac of the dead. While he was adjutant-general, a country couple sidled shyly up to headquarters of his division, one day; the lady blushingly stating their business. It was the most important one of life: they wanted to marry. So, a counc
Pierre G. T. Beauregard (search for this): chapter 34
ack And copper every Jack, You'll lose stack after stack -- Forever! Everything tending to bathos-whether for the cause, or against it --caught its quick rebuke, at the hands of some glib funmaker. Once an enthusiastic admirer of the hero of Charleston indited a glowing ode, of which the refrain ran: Beau sabreur, beau canon, Beau soldat-Beauregard! Promptly came another, and most distorted version; its peculiar refrain enfolding: Beau Brummel, Beau Fielding, Beau Hickman-Beauregard! As it is not of record that the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia ever discovered the junior laureate, the writer will not essay to do so. Colonel Tom August, of the First Virginia, was the Charles Lamb of Confederate war-wits; genial, quick and ever gay. Early in secession days, a bombastic friend approached Colonel Tom, with the query: Well, sir, I presume your voice is still for war? To which the wit replied promptly: Oh, yes, devilish still! Later, when the ski
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